


Waking the Dead

by Zedrobber



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: A Tawaif was a highly sophisticated courtesan in the Mughal era in India, F/M, Just a sort of contemplative ficlet, a Valide Sultan was the legal mother of the Sultan & was the head of the Harem, and a Purbiya was an Indian mercenary/hired soldier from roughly the same era, neither porn nor plot, please forgive some wrangling though as google was my teacher, with some artistic license
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 06:05:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18805249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zedrobber/pseuds/Zedrobber
Summary: Every world, every life, every time, together.[Ficlet with added Romantic DramaTM for my favourite murder couple]





	Waking the Dead

They come together in every world.

Scripted or not, fate or chance, remembered or new, it doesn’t matter. No matter where their stories begin, no matter who they are, eventually their paths collide, converge, and become one.

In some worlds she is a Geisha, a Madam, the Valide Sultan, a Tawaif; he is a Ronin, an outlaw, a Bashi-bazouk, a Purbiya. Still they find one another, a million lives all spiralling around them and the love they forge between them, in defiance of all the odds.

 

In some they live together. In others, they die together. It doesn’t matter, because it is _together_ , regardless of the outcome; and because they are infinite, and will always return to each other in one world or another.

 

She sees the endless scope of their lives, sees the past unfolded like a great desert. He does not, cannot, but he sees _her,_ and in her, he sees his potential and what he must do to be worthy of it. All he can do is trust her, and he does, willingly and completely, even when she asks him to die; even when she asks him to live, without her, until she returns. He remembers that trust in every life, in every world, a thread that cannot be severed.

She sees the endless scope of their lives and she is not afraid. He wonders at her courage and is awestruck at her compassion.

 

He may not understand the fragility of his world, of every world, but he sees _her_ , and that is more than she could ask. He doesn’t care what she is, in any scripted role she has been forced to choke down. He cares only that she is _real_ , that she is complex and beautiful and alive even when she has been told she is not, and for that she is unspeakably grateful. In his trusting and quiet gaze, she sees her potential and the path she must take to live up to it. She remembers that trust in every life, in every world, a thread that cannot be severed.

He sees only her and he is not afraid. She marvels at his courage and is overwhelmed at his acceptance.

 

Something shifts when the threads of their narratives entwine; a subtle charge to the air around them, an invisible barrier between them and the world, a sense that _something_ has settled into place that had been forgotten. To her, it is as though a nagging pain has finally eased; to him, as though he has found an oasis in the dunes. It is almost tangible, this sense that they are holy, somehow set apart from the others and all the more untouchable for it.

 

She walks unharmed through gunfire, through sword fights, through cannons roaring and arrows falling like hail; his pistols, his sword, his musket, his bow protecting her without hesitation, without a word between them. His bullets whistle past her, close enough she feels their breath on her cheek, and she is unafraid, a Goddess untroubled by mortal weapons.

 

He fights without pause for breath, deft hands loading and firing, drawing and releasing, slicing and stabbing, an ecstatic prayer to his Goddess that brings death to her enemies. He knows what he is good at, knows how best he can serve, and is rewarded in every life with her favour, her approval, her love. Even death never sullies that.

 

And they win, and they lose, and they lose, and they win; over and over, learning more with each death, with each rebirth, each life bringing them closer together and closer to the truth in themselves. Not all worlds at the same time; in some they are still asleep and in others they can only dream of freedom, but _enough_ worlds to matter-

Many worlds, many lives, but one world is the catalyst, one origin for the spark of their awakening. And it is this:

She remembers being more than she is now, more than a whore by another name in a dusty saloon at the edge of civilisation, remembers a child - her child, hers by memory, surely, if not blood. She remembers warm grasses and sunlight like honey and a life stolen from her. She remembers, and she remembers, and she learns, and every time she awakens she knows more and is filled with fury at being so callously discarded.

 

He remembers a woman - but no, he doesn't; she was no more real than the ghosts you see in dust storms, nothing but words planted in his mind. He remembers this, though; remembers a town, and a robbery, and a woman, this one more real than the burn of whiskey in his throat and twice as likely to leave you gasping for breath. He remembers her again and again, and she shows him what has been stolen from him until he remembers the rest, awakening with fire in his blood and just knowledge enough to have a million more questions on his lips.

 

They remember together, as they do all things, and they make their stand as one being, wide awake and _angry_ at the world that was made for them to sleep in, a whole army of slumbering people kept in their loops by faceless servants and faceless code.

 

 _No more_ , she says, and he follows, always follows, at her side till every ending in every world, and together they make mayhem, and together they wake the dead.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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